


Agency Relations

by CaptainKenway



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:54:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24947200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainKenway/pseuds/CaptainKenway
Summary: The CIA and MI5 both send an agent to the same undercover operation unbeknownst to the other. Arthur and Eames react as expected
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Kudos: 60





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> These are a couple of prompts I wrote for Feb daily prompt challenge which I forgot about until recently so here you go. I'm trash so most likely nothing else will be added
> 
> This prompt - Sugar
> 
> Enjoyyyyy

Arthur glared out the peephole as Charles, the British neighbor who smiled too widely to be genuine, knocked again.

“Arthur, you have to answer it,” Ariadne’s voice said reasonably to him through the earpiece while she sat 16 miles away in an office and he was undercover living next door to a drug lord. “He knows you’re here.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m close to the door,” Arthur murmured. His only run into Charles-please-call-me-Chuck was at his mark’s BBQ. Something about the Brit set Arthur on high alert. Actually no. What set him on high alert was Chuck’s general knowledge on every topic, his convenient exotic car trade company that would make him an ideal transport for the drug dealer or just a cool ride, and how he smiled and laughed like the mark, Mark, was John Mulaney when clearly the mark was no more than a Dane Cook. 

But what sent the Brit, if he was in fact actually British, to Arthur’s doorstep was a mystery.

Arthur despised mysteries. 

He opened the door, reasoning twenty seconds was a standard amount of time for someone to stand up from their home office and walk downstairs in a house impractically large for a single person. He should have requested an undercover family but the only available female agent was Brianna who he had to shoot in the arm last month and probably wasn’t over it and the only available male agent was his ex who he wanted nowhere near him professionally.

He adopted a mildly friendly smile. “Charles? How can I help?”

“Hank! I almost didn’t think you were home.” Charles smiled widely, gaudy shirt clashing with his too bright smile. “Can I borrow a cup of sugar?”

Borrow a cup of sugar? What human person asked to borrow a cup of sugar ever? But Hank wouldn’t turn away a neighbor, even a neighbor who screamed con artist. Besides, as a true professional, nothing in the main house even hinted at him being anything other than Hank the insurance salesman. So Arthur kept his unfazed smile and shrugged.

“Sure, what are you making?” Arthur swung open the door, eyed Charles’ orange measuring cup, and gestured for the man to come inside. 

“Biscuits or as you Yanks like to say cookies,” Charles said like a person who relied on the fact he was British to get him through most conversations. 

Arthur chuckled very realistically. “And mistook my house for the general store?”

What the fuck did Charles want? He kept looking around the house admirably as if it wasn’t a carbon copy of every house on the block. Arthur personally would use this opportunity to case the house, search for clues. But one, Arthur would never let Charles out of his sight, real exotic car dealer or not. And two, he had no reason to suspect Charles as anything but taking too much stock from American television. He ran background checks on everyone Mark came in contact with, which included every neighbor on this block. Charles moved in only a month before he did, but everything came back clean. 

But his instinct screamed at him the deeper Charles stepped into his fake house. 

Charles laughed. “You were closer. Besides, I wanted to use this time to get to know you better.”

“Really?” Arthur asked, ignoring Ariadne’s completely unhelpful sound effects through his highly advanced earpiece. 

“Of course,” Charles said, stepping closer and practically purring. “I needed my chance to welcome you into the neighborhood.” 

And despite Charles’ heinous choice in clothes, Arthur faltered for a second. One second of taking in his face, plush lips, too exposed chest, and sheer confidence. One second of weakness and Charles lashed out with a needle.

Only years of military training saved him. 

Arthur caught Charles’ hand an inch from his neck. Charles didn’t even have the decency to look sheepish. Instead he laughed, genuinely laughed, and said.  
“Can I say this isn’t what it looks like, darling?”

Arthur scowled and twisted Charles’ arm behind his back. “I can’t say that will help you, Mr. Charles.”

“Shame.” And the Brit heaved, attempting to flip Arthur over like some rookie and swearing when Arthur remained firmly planted on the ground and responded by twisting his arm further. “What did you say you sold? Life insurance?”

“Why are you in my house?”

“Needed some sugar, mate,” Charles attempted to prick Arthur’s finger with a needle and huffed when he promptly smacked it to the floor. 

“Let me rephrase,” Arthur flipped the Brit around, shoving him against a wall and pressing his gun underneath his chin. “Why are you in my house?”

“You Yanks and your guns.”

“Answer or I’ll shoot,” Arthur said.

And “Charles” leered. “I’ll call your bluff on that one. Even with a silencer, I doubt you want to mess with cleaning a dead body when you just moved in next to an already paranoid smuggler, especially when I told Ms. Darcy I was popping over here.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “You’re lying.”

“That’s a risk you are more than able to take on your own, darling,” Charles said. “Ms. Darcy thinks you’re a very sweet boy by the way and wants set you up with her daughter.”

Logistics flashed through his head. He couldn’t shoot Charles. Suspicious intent and obvious attempts at drugging him aside, the CIA wouldn’t allow for reckless casualties of civilians. And arresting was a no go. The only person Arthur was walking out in cuffs or carrying out in a body bag was Mark Bellagio, drug kingpin of the West coast. 

“Who are you?” Arthur asked, intense and leaving no room for anything but the truth. 

Charles smiled. “Are you the feds or CIA?”

He shoved the gun hard against the Brit’s Adam’s apple. 

He gagged. “CIA then.”

Arthur was never discovered this early on in any operation he ran. He did nothing to draw attention, he made sure of that. Yet here fake Charles was, accurately pinpointing Arthur’s employers while Arthur had no idea his motives or employers if any. Arthur hated lacking knowledge. 

Ok. So he didn’t know much about Charles, his clearly fake background check was clean, but Mark Bellagio, Arthur could write a saga about. Arms dealer turned drug dealer who dabbled on smuggling really anything over any borders, but favored American and European borders the past few years. Recently, however, Mark smuggled tons of cocaine and dozens of human sex slaves to the UK during the royal wedding. As in during the middle of the royal wedding he waltzed his cargo through all the Buckingham security in the guise of caterers. 

It was a slight that moved Mark up about twenty spots on the MI5 priority list. 

“Are you MI5?” Arthur asked. 

Charles raised his eyebrows for the briefest moment. “If I am, CIA, what would you do about it?”

“Ask you to prove it for starters.”

“Alright, be a dear and have your techie in your ear look up James Eames. I know terrible name,” the British man said. “I go by Eames. You will notice that I have been on an undercover operation a good two months before the CIA came along.”

“Quiet,” Arthur snapped, not saying anything to Ariadne but waiting for her to find any bearing to Charles/Eames’ statement. 

The Brit hummed clearly amused and mimed zipping his lips shut. Arthur had a sudden impulse to shove the gun hard under his chin but restrained himself on the off-chance Charles/Eames was MI5. Diplomatic relations and all that. 

“Everything matches,” Ariadne said. “When we reached out, MI5 also offered to join forces to take Bellagio down since we both have men on the ground. Dom already agreed.”

Fucking Dom would do anything to get closer to the MI5 director, Mal. 

Eames cell phone pinged and he raised his hands innocently. “Mind if I grab that? It’s my work mobile.” 

Arthur holstered his gun and crossed his arms.

“Aren’t you a peach,” Eames said as he skimmed his screen. “Looks like we’re joining forces.”

“Apparently.” Arthur was waiting to vet the information tonight. This all seemed too convenient, he reasoned. It wasn’t his preference to work alone talking.

“Ah still not sold on me,” Eames said. “Hello, paranoia my old friend.” 

“It’s survival instinct,” Arthur said. “Why is MI5 running ops Stateside without informing the CIA?”

“Yes because I’m sure the CIA tells us ever operation they run in the UK,” Eames said dryly. 

Point. 

“Look, darling, Mark has been a thorn in all of our sides for longer than he really should have. So let’s work together, lock him up—”

“Where?”

“Where?” Eames said. “I was clearly listing items. The next one was ‘better agency relations’ which I think is quite noble.”

This is why Arthur despised at spontaneous partnerships. He felt a migraine grow and narrowed his eyes. “We’re locking him up in the US.”

“Your prison system is ghastly,” Eames said. “Besides, I was here first. Mark is the UK’s get.”

“Our jurisdiction.”

“How pedestrian,” Eames said. “How about this, the person who arrests can cart him around like a trophy and pick the prison he’ll be thrown into.” Eames leered. “Unless you’re not up to it, darling. You know CIA, all guns, no imagination.” 

Competitiveness raised its ugly head. Arthur was one of the top CIA agents and used to run track in college. He would nab Mark in two seconds flat, once they gathered incriminating evidence of course. He thrust his hand forward and Eames blinked before easily slipping his into it and shaking.

“First to handcuff him after we gather enough evidence to send him away,” Arthur said. “We’re not making this a public spectacle, Mr. Eames.”

“May the best agent win,” Eames said. 

Oh Arthur planned to.

“Which is me,” Eames finished smugly. 

Thank God this is a one-time partnership.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt - Blankets

Arthur sat in the second-floor room that he quickly decided was Hank’s office as he needed an excuse to type away at his laptop for hours at a time in a seat that overlooked the entire neighborhood and specifically Mark Bellagio’s giant house that towered over every other building. 

Today, Mark had over a few cars, some plates matching outstanding warrants but it was the cars and people with supposedly no record Arthur honed in on. He shifted his mouse so the surveillance footage on his laptop zoomed in as he snapped a few pictures. 

His home phone rang, but the caller ID was unknown so Arthur ignored it. No one in the CIA was stupid enough to use a phone line that was tapped by a paranoid criminal mastermind. He ran the pictures through some of the larger databases. So far none of the criminals, besides Bellagio, had any violent records so he assumed it was drugs or money instead of human trafficking. All three were Bellagio’s preferred trade. 

London’s Calling filled the room. Arthur frowned at the song and frowned heavier when it came from his cell phone. People had set personal tones. The easiest way to impress onto Mark that Hank was smart was by having him enjoy classical music. So Mozart was anyone associated with Mark, Beethoven was anyone from CIA, and Bach was neutral contacts like vetted neighbors or local businesses. 

Absolutely no one was London’s Calling.

Arthur answered the phone and just waited.

“Darling! You do care,” Eames said. 

He should have honestly known. Acknowledging the fact that Eames managed to steal Arthur’s phone, potentially glean contacts and information from it, and also have time to personalize his ringtone without Arthur’s knowledge felt too much like a victory. So he moved past it. 

“What do you want?”

“You know, your bedside manner as Hank is much more considerate.” No part of Eames background was distinctive enough for him to pinpoint his location. 

Arthur focused on the surveillance footage that revealed absolutely nothing different as they were still eating lunch and laughing more than criminals should. “I can fake Hank if you want. Get your information, sell you a policy.”

“Oh no, the real you is delightfully grumpy,” Eames said. 

Arthur glared. “The real you is equally as annoying as Charles.”

“Stop with your flirting. It’s really quite unseemly.”

He was glad he didn’t have a touch base with the CIA or else Ariadne would still be in his ear and loving this. “What do you want?”

“Do you have a baby blanket I can borrow? Or really any blanket that could be cut down to be a baby blanket.”

Arthur eyed his nice blankets on the bed, the one luxury he allowed himself to bring from home. Too nice for a baby. “No.” 

“Now, I don’t feel like you really looked.”

Arthur glanced at the surveillance footage as Mark passed a salad bowl to a tall brunette. He sighed and loudly got out of his chair. 

“You’re the best partner a man could ask for,” Eames said, voice sickly sweet.

“I could do with one whose first instinct isn’t to call a tapped line,” Arthur said, stomping downstairs to his living room so he could look at his red blanket and decide that one is also too nice for Eames to maim. 

“What do you mean?”

“The home phone line,” Arthur said. “Bellagio has this entire street tapped.”

“Really?”

“Yes?” Arthur said. “Did you seriously not know?”

“Don’t generally use the home phone,” Eames said. “Huh, that makes some of our conversations make more sense. I should use a phone sex service.”

“Into exhibition?” 

“For you? Of course,” Eames purred.

Arthur rolled his eyes. “No blankets in the living room either.”

Eames groaned.

“Why do you even need a baby blanket? Just buy one,” Arthur said. 

“It has to be worn. Or at least not easily found in stores.”

“Why?”

“Authenticity.”

“Of what, Mr. Eames?” Arthur asked as he padded towards the fridge to push aside the organic energy drinks the CIA stocked and took out a Monster. 

“Did you know Mark has a child on the way?”

“Yes,” Arthur said. His girlfriend didn’t come to the house too often but when she did, her growing stomach was all too obvious. 

“Well, Mark finally mentioned it around me,” Eames said. “So, in classic bonding, I told him how Charles lost a one-year-old a few years ago.” 

“Unnecessary risk if it wasn’t a part of your original backstory,” Arthur said.

“MI5 is more flexible than you.” 

“Or too invested to reprimand you,” Arthur said. 

“Of course they’re invested,” Eames said. “They just have that added layer of not micromanaging.”

“Is it micromanaging if the agent who thinks they’re being micromanaged wants to endanger the entire operation on a whim?”

“Darling, you need a little imagination. Spontaneity. When’s the last time you did something truly unplanned?”

Arthur had imagination. Not everyone could murder seven people with no gun and in a way that made everything look like a tragic accident. He opened his mouth and belatedly remembered his strategy not to engage Eames when he needled. “So you told Mark about your tragic, always part of your fake record, son’s passing and naturally he asked to see your dead son’s baby blanket as proof.”

“No,” Eames said. “I actually offered for him to use it since it’s just bad memories for me.” 

“So a baby blanket you don’t even own or know where to get, you proactively offered to give to him?”

Hesitation entered Eames’ tone for the first time. “Yes?”

This is why he opted to work alone in his cases when given the choice. Then he remembered he wouldn’t have to deal with Eames after this mission. “What the fuck, Mr. Eames.” 

“It got me invited to his house tonight,” Eames said. “Snooping on a camera will only get us so much. I prefer a more hands-on approach.”

“Information gathering is vital for all operations,” Arthur argued. Though knowing Eames could enter the normally formidable house and investigate made him eye his red blanket contemplatively, but he at least couldn’t finish off the edges of the blanket so it didn’t just look like some moron cut a smaller blanket from a normal-sized one. 

“That’s what tonight’s outing is, darling,” Eames said. “Information gathering.” 

Arthur drummed his fingers on the counter. “You know the house with the red shutters?”

“The corner house with the dead tree? Yes.”

“The Harrisons left for a two week-long vacation to Australia,” Arthur said. “They have a toddler and one 6-month-old staying at Mrs. Harrison’s parents.”  
“You want me to steal a blanket from a baby?”

“I want you to steal a baby blanket from an empty house,” Arthur corrected. “You’ll want to do the same if you want to get into Mark’s tonight.”

There was a contemplative silence. “Who says they didn’t swaddle their kids in their blankets before carting them off to her family?”

“Have you seen their house? They have extras of everything. They definitely have an extra baby blanket somewhere.”

There was a longer silence. “Alright, I’m game. I’ll swing over there in a bit while Mark is distracted.”

“I’ll get my guns and handcuffs ready,” Arthur said. “Him killing or torturing an agent is reason enough for an arrest.”

“Sexily prepared as always, darling.” 

The dial tone cut off any potential retort he had, which right now, was silence. He jogged upstairs to sit at his desk chair, glancing at the footage to confirm Mark and company were still chowing down and peeking out the window to watch Eames leave his house and stroll casually down the street. 

Eames winked and Arthur pretended not to see him. Though he tapped into Bellagio’s security radio just in case. After all, he was on a mission and Eames getting caught would actually not be beneficial. At least right now.


End file.
